


Alfie

by queuebird



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, Embedded Images, Hickeys, Jealousy, M/M, New York City, Post-Canon, Reminiscing, WIP Exchange, they have a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird/pseuds/queuebird
Summary: “He’s safe,” Arthur says.“How do you know? You’ve never met him.”Arthur gives Eames a level look. “I did a background check on him, as I do with everyone you talk about. He’s safe.”Eames sighs. He would never doubt Arthur’s judgment, of course not, “—but whyhere,”he whines. “He’s got all his little DJ buddies all over New York, and he pickshere.”“He just needed a place to stay. He seems nice, and it’s only for a couple days. Really, he’s your friend, I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal.”





	Alfie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/gifts).



> Part of [deinvati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati)’s [Pass the Baton WIP Exchange](https://deinvatiwrites.tumblr.com/post/184576032634/multi-fandom-wip-exchange)! From [youcant](https://youcantsaymylastname.tumblr.com/), I received a series of fabulous photo manips, an OMC, a cat, and the beginning of a story, and I turned it into...this I guess?? A million kisses to my beta [whirling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirling) and my “Britpicker” [lbswasp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp). Thank you so much my friends!
> 
> Photo manips by [youcant](https://youcantsaymylastname.tumblr.com/).

_Look who’s visiting_

Eames gives the text notification on his mobile a cursory glance before returning his attention to the cards in his hand.

“Girlfriend?” the man on Eames’s right says.

“Hardly,” Eames replies.

The guy’s been a chatty pain in the arse all afternoon. Eames cuts a glance at the deck, then taps his poker chips idly. Conning pricks out of their money is only so fun for so long.

He bows out from the game and shoulders his way to the cashier. As he waits for his money, he taps open his mobile again.

_Look who’s visiting_

The text was sent with a picture.

Eames stares at the face from his past, bewildered. He taps a response.

_..Alfie??_

In their _home?_ When did Arthur get to know Alfie, let alone become comfortable enough to let him into the house? _Glasses and everything._ Eames despairs.

As he hurries back home, Eames thinks hard about what exactly has changed in his relationship with Alfie that Alfie thought they did house calls now.

When was the last time he saw Alfie?

Their lives veered wildly after school, Eames joining the military and Alfie circuiting London’s club scene and begging all of them to let him DJ, and they dropped off each other’s radars. Apparently, some people actually took Alfie up on his offer and didn’t think he was utter shit, and Eames ended up running into him at Reading and Leeds a couple years back. They had the quickest conversation possible before Eames ducked after the mark. Eames had honestly forgotten the whole thing happened until he was searching through the texts on his burner post-job and he found one from an unfamiliar number.

_Hey mate nice catching up today haha been a bit wanna grab drinks before you go_

Eames had just enough time to process it as Alfie’s particular brand of stream-of-consciousness texting before a volley of shots had hit the stone behind him and he had to drop down and toss the phone into the Thames.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it, because Alfie Hinton the Third may be many things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them.

They ran into each other again and again on various of Eames’s jobs, LA and Paris and London, until Eames started feeling like he was cursed. He made excuses about phone issues, but eventually reached a breaking point and added Alfie’s number to his real mobile with the wild hope that maybe then he’d stop experiencing vivid flashbacks to throwing up in someone else’s loo in second year.

He was in NYC when they finally went out for drinks. Eames did not _intend_ to get drunk, but he forgot how easy it was to talk bullshit with Alfie, and also what a dirty enabler Alfie was. Eames’s place was on the way to Alfie’s hotel, so in the wee hours of the morning they staggered together cackling over the time Alfie set fire to a tree and took a header into the fountain on the quad. At the flat, Arthur accepted a single kiss from Eames before hitting him with a pillow and making him sleep on the sofa.

Eames wasn’t even thinking of Alfie when he decided to take a break from dreamshare and fuck around with making something like a semi-permanent home out of his NYC place and doing the shopping or whatever.

With Arthur.

He...isn’t sure when they’re going to define what their thing has turned into. It might be getting serious.

They seem to be on the same page anyway. Eames puts it out of his mind.

He recalls mentioning Alfie to Arthur maybe a couple times, mostly because Eames can’t avoid it if he wants to say anything at all about uni. But he was fairly certain Arthur wasn’t paying attention—and anyway, he distracted him quickly enough.

Eames should know by now not to underestimate Arthur.

He pushes the door to their flat open with his shoulder, holding a carton of eggs and a box of the weird gourmet cookies Arthur likes. Sanaa pads up to him and winds around his legs, doing her level best to ruin another shop run.

“Stop it, miss,” he says.

He steps around her gingerly, dumps the stuff on the counter, and bends down to scratch her chin. She rubs her face on him before giving him huge, sad eyes.

Eames makes a face. “Don’t,” he says. “I’m not falling for that again.”

She meows piteously. Eames tries to give her a stern look even as he inches toward her food cabinet. “Fine,” he says, reaching for the handle, “just a little. Only because you’re the best kitty in the world.”

Arthur’s voice comes from the living room: “Eames, _don’t._ I fed her half an hour ago. She’s just being a baby.”

Eames pouts. “Not even for the best kitty in the world?”

The sound of glass clinking, and a smile in Arthur’s voice. “I’m revoking her title on grounds of being a baby.”

Eames makes a scandalized noise. He crouches down and rubs Sanaa’s ears. “Don’t listen to him, darling, you’re wonderful,” he tells her. She swishes her tail and accepts a treat from him.

Eames wanders into the living room, cookie box in hand, tailed by Sanaa, who curls up in her spot on the sofa, the rest of which is occupied by—

“Hullo, Eames,” Alfie says. “Nice place you’ve got.”

Eames stares at him. Then he squints accusingly at Arthur.

Arthur is sprawled sideways across the recliner, wine glass in hand, cheeks slightly pink in that way that belies his tipsiness. Glasses low on his nose, hair curling onto his forehead. Decadent.

Eames softens. He goes over, dropping the cookies on the coffee table, and cups the back of Arthur’s head with his hand. When Arthur looks up at him, he bends down and kisses him—first on the cheek, in the middle of the lovely rose, then on the mouth.

“Hey, you,” Arthur says. When Eames opens his eyes, Arthur’s smiling at him, eyes scrunched up and dimples out. Eames’s heart does something silly.

“Hey, darling,” Eames says, stroking Arthur’s hair.

“Do I get one?” Alfie says.

_Christ._

Eames straightens up and gives Alfie a closed-mouth smile. “Alfie. Pleasure.”

Alfie swings his legs off the sofa and pulls Eames into a hug. “Eames, mate!” He thumps Eames’s back laddishly. “It’s been a bit. Why don’t we grab a beer for you, they’re in the kitchen. This way!”

“This is _my_ flat,” Eames says as Alfie pulls him away from Arthur.

...

“You never mentioned a boyfriend, Eames,” Alfie says, leaning his back against the counter

Eames grunts as he yanks open the fridge and puts the eggs in. He's used many words to describe Arthur. That particular one has never been mentioned, even jokingly, between them. Eames deals with this by not thinking about it. He surveys their food selection.

“‘S fit, too,” Alfie says.

Eames kicks the fridge shut, arms full of various food paraphernalia, and whacks around until he has something resembling a sandwich.

“Where did you find him?” Alfie continues, whispering now. “I’d be—”

 _”Shut up,”_ Eames hisses.

“Ahh, Eamesie,” Alfie drops his hand on Eames’s shoulder and shakes him, “you know I’m just messin’ with ya, I’d never take your boy.” He smiles at Eames. “I hope you don’t mind my staying for a bit, I asked your boyfriend and he said—”

“He’s _not—”_ Eames begins, thoughtless. He snaps his mouth shut.

“He isn’t?” Alfie’s eyes are bright. “Then—”

“Don’t, Alfie, I swear to God.”

Alfie hums. Eames stands there, glowering, then leaves the kitchen with the sandwich.

“Eames, it’s two a.m.,” Arthur says through a mouthful of cookie, eyes on Eames’s plate.

Eames shrugs. “Fancied myself a midnight snack.”

Arthur leans in. “Chicken salad? Give.” He makes grabby hands.

Eames gives him half, and, once he finishes that, lets him have the rest.

...

“Why did you let this man into our home,” Eames whispers. Alfie isn’t up yet, Eames can hear him snoring through the wall, but the man’s always had an uncanny sense of when people are talking about him and Eames doesn’t really want to risk it.

Pale late morning sunlight slips through the slats in the bathroom window, illuminating Arthur’s profile. He shrugs and taps a razor against the sink. “He’s safe,” Arthur says.

“How do you know? You’ve never met him.”

Arthur gives Eames a level look. “I did a background check on him, as I do with everyone you talk about.” He turns his attention back to the mirror. “He’s safe.”

Eames sighs and stretches his arms over his head, kicking the sheets to the bottom of the bed. He would never doubt Arthur’s judgment, of course not, “—but why _here,”_ he whines. “He’s got all his little DJ buddies all over New York, and he picks _here.”_

“He just needed a place to stay. He seems nice, and it’s only for a couple days.” Arthur dips his head down to the tap. When he comes back up, rubbing at his face with a towel, he continues, “Really, he’s your friend, I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal.”

Eames sighs again, rubbing at his bare stomach absently. He looks at Arthur.

“Arthur, come here,” he says.

Arthur regards him.

“Just come here, love.”

Arthur approaches, stopping when his feet hit the bed. Eames sits up, slips his hand onto Arthur’s nape, and draws their lips together.

It’s warm, and gentle. Arthur tastes like mint toothpaste and smells like his clary sage aftershave, and Eames can feel little pinpricks of cold on his face where the tips of Arthur’s hair got wet in the sink. Eames draws back, pauses, then pushes forward, deepening the kiss. Arthur opens up under him with a sigh, and lets Eames pull him into the bed, straddling Eames’s lap.

Arthur’s hands come up to grip Eames’s waist when Eames shifts to suck a line of kisses down Arthur’s throat. He doesn’t protest when Eames sinks his teeth in where he can taste Arthur’s pulse, just closes his eyes and angles his head to give Eames more room.

Eames is mad for him.

He can feel Arthur’s cock starting to take an interest in the proceedings, pressed against his stomach through his pants, but when Eames trails his hands down Arthur’s sleep shirt to tuck under his waistband, Arthur laughs breathlessly and leans away.

“Eames, we can’t,” he says. “Alfie is right—”

 _Fucking Alfie._ Eames growls and flips them over, hands sliding up to pin Arthur’s wrists to the bed. He presses their hips together as he kisses him messily.

When they break apart, Arthur’s panting, color high on his cheekbones.

“Sod Alfie,” Eames says.

“I.” Arthur laughs again. He’s so beautiful against Eames’s sheets. Eames drops to nose at the bulge in Arthur’s pants. Arthur’s breath hitches.

They don’t get out of bed until the afternoon.

…

Arthur’s moving languidly around the kitchen. His hair’s fucked, and there’s a red mark in his throat that’s going to purple beautifully.

“Tea?” he says.

Eames accepts the cup and sips from it as he wanders into the living room.

Alfie’s still sleeping, sprawled across the sofa in a way that makes it clear it’s too small for him. Sanaa’s curled malevolently over him—for stealing her spot, Eames presumes, but it could also be that she hates him. As she should.

“Sanaa, best kitty in the world, hello!” Eames says softly. He makes kissy noises. “Are you hungry, sweetheart? Food?” Her ears twitch, and she follows him back into the kitchen, where Arthur’s making toast.

Arthur turns around to give Eames an exasperated look. “I fed her this morning,” he says.

Eames mentally replays the morning. “...When?”

“Before. She was crying at the door, and you were sleeping, so.” Arthur shrugs and turns away to poke at the toaster some more. Eames goes right up to him and wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, fitting his front to Arthur’s back.

“You’re a gift, do you know that?” Eames says.

“You’ve said, yes,” Arthur replies.

Before Eames can smother Arthur with all the adoration he deserves, Alfie strolls into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes. Ugh. Eames pulls away from Arthur irritably and busies himself with the eggs.

“Mornin’! Or, afternoon, I suppose,” Alfie says, loudly and unnecessarily. He slouches against the counter and peers over. “What are we making?”

“It’s toast, Alfie,” Arthur says. “I hope you like bread.”

“Marvelous, I _adore_ bread,” Alfie proclaims.

Arthur snorts. Eames smashes some eggs into the pan.

Alfie dips out to change clothes, and when the toaster goes off, he squeezes between Arthur and Eames to grab a piece.

“I’m off for the day, mates, got some important business to tend to,” he says. He sticks the toast in his mouth and winks at them. “Thanks for brekkie, Arthur.”

Arthur waves. “See you tonight, Alfie.”

Eames turns to him as the door shuts behind Alfie. “Tonight?” he echoes.

“We’re going to grab dinner together. I want to learn more about him.” Arthur transfers the remaining two slices of toast to two plates, grabs the jam from the fridge, and slides gingerly into his seat at the kitchen table. Sanaa jumps into the chair next to him, making food eyes. “Sanaa, no. Jeez, it’s like we don’t feed you.”

Eames sniffs and turns back to the eggs. “I thought you already did your background check.” He seizes their salt and pepper shakers.

The jam jar clinks. “Yes, but learn about him like a normal person, Eames. He seems interesting. Watch the salt!”

Eames stops shaking and frowns into the pan. “It’s fine,” he says.

He was halfheartedly thinking about taking Arthur to the Met for the afternoon and then maybe dinner afterwards, but never mind. He could just as easily stay in, complain about what’s on the telly, and shag Arthur senseless.

...

“I’m going to look like I got jumped by a vampire gang,” Arthur gripes, angling his naked upper half this way and that in the mirror.

“I think it looks wonderful, darling.” Eames nuzzles Arthur’s shoulder from behind and thoughtfully presses his teeth in.

Arthur turns around, dislodging Eames. “Do you have a fixation or something that I’m just now finding out about?” he asks curiously.

“...No?” Eames says.

Arthur turns back to the mirror, examining himself. “It’s fine,” he says, brushing past Eames toward his closet. “The collar should cover it.”

Eames follows him because he’s hopeless. “Well,” he hedges, “is it so bad? You don’t have to.”

Arthur gives Eames a look over his shoulder. “Yes, it is.” The hangers clack in the closet. “Now shoo and let me find something to wear.”

“Why does it matter?” Eames sours. Arthur’s got his lovely skin all red and marked-up in front of Eames and Eames isn’t touching him. It’s a damn crime. “Alfie wouldn’t know fashion if it fucked him up the arse. Speaking of…”

Arthur pushes Eames’s hands away, laughing. “Oh my God, you’re insatiable. You’re going to ruin my ass forever.”

“Is it so bad?” Eames says, concentrating on trying for another grope. He wilts when Arthur moves away again.

An idea occurs to him. “You could do me instead?” he asks hopefully.

Arthur laughs again. _“No.”_ he says. “Get out of here.”

Eames grumbles as he retreats from the bedroom, scooping up Sanaa on the way, who’s whining about the lack of attention and/or food.

“He doesn’t love us, huh, pet?” he says as she’s struggling to get out of his grip. “It’s all Alfie this, Alfie that. How many orgasms have I given him today?” He lets her onto the counter and she makes a happy murr as he feeds her treats.

“Exactly,” he says.

…

Eames doesn’t mean to, but he can’t resist when Arthur’s all dolled up like that. They manage another round before Arthur leaves.

...

He’s halfway through a sulky reread of one of Arthur’s books when his head perks up at the sound of the doorknob turning. He glances at the clock—only ten p.m.

Arthur enters first—disheveled, but not in a tipsy way. Tired but happy, his collar a little open. The bruises are there. Eames licks his lips.

Alfie comes in closely behind Arthur. Eames zeroes in on the hand he has laid high on Arthur’s back.

Alfie gives Eames a quick smile and removes the hand. “Bloke needs sleep,” he says. _“Someone_ wore him out all day.”

Arthur regards Alfie narrowly, but admits, “I’m a little tired.”

Eames kisses Arthur’s cheek, because he can. Arthur pats his hip in response and slips into the bedroom, and in a minute the shower turns on.

Alfie sinks into the sofa with a sigh, resulting in Sanaa giving him a dirty look, leaping off, and settling into her secondary location—the cat bed directly below her sofa spot. Eames put it there to appease Her Highness when one of the humans, God forbid, wanted to sit down.

Alfie gestures to the recliner, as if he were the gracious host and Eames the visitor. Prick. Eames sits reluctantly, and splays open Arthur’s book on the coffee table.

He gets to munch a cookie in a few seconds of peace before Alfie remarks, “You exhausted your poor boyfriend.”

Eames scoffs. “My b…” He swallows the word. “He got himself tired,” he finishes.

“He’s a good ‘un,” Alfie says. “You’re a lucky sod.”

Eames glances at the bedroom door—he can hear Arthur singing something quietly under the spray of water. He takes another cookie from the box.

Alfie’s quiet until Eames looks back up at him. Then he says, seriously, “He’s lucky, too.”

Eames blinks. Alfie breaks out into a smile, and Eames is suddenly reminded of why the student body voted him Sexiest Man at their uni.

“You’re still my best mate from uni, man,” he says. “Who else can I talk to about skinny dipping in the fountain during exams? Who else came up with the idea of the Great Ant Olympics to—”

“—End the Century!” they intone in unison. “Yeah, yeah,” Eames says.

Alfie laughs. “You’re a riot,” he says.

Eames shakes his head. “Good times,” he says.

He’s surprised to find that it’s true.

They sit in comfortable silence, then Alfie gets up with a groan.

“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” he says. “These bones are too old for staying up late two nights in a row.”

“Not any older than my bones.”

Alfie points at Eames. “Precisely. And if your boy ever moves on from your bones...” He clicks his tongue and winks. “Tell him to call Alfie. I’m curious about his hands.”

Eames rolls his eyes and gets up. “Alright, I get it, I’m leaving.”

Alfie laughs. “Cheers.”

“Night, Alfie.”

In their room, Eames sits on his side of the bed, mulling, until Arthur emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and crawls under the covers all warm and soft. Eames turns toward him like a flower to the sun.

“Hey,” Arthur whispers.

“Hey,” Eames whispers back.

“Time to sleep,” Arthur says.

“Of course,” says Eames.

...

Eames wakes to the sound of a chair falling and someone cursing, then the front door opening and closing. He half-sits up, drawing his eyebrows together. Arthur, curled around his arm, makes a sleepy questioning noise.

“What’s he doing?” Eames asks, voice rough with morning.

Arthur sighs out of his nose. “Does it matter?” he says. Eames looks down at him. His eyes are still closed, scrunched up like being awake is too much. He admires Arthur’s purple lovebites for a self-indulgent moment.

“Nah,” he says, and shifts back down into the bed. He has to pull his arm out of Arthur’s grip because it’s going numb, but he wraps his other arm around Arthur’s waist and gives his back a pat.

He doesn’t go back to sleep, but he spends a pleasant bit dozing and warm under the sheets with his—with Arthur. When he hears the front door slam again, he slides out and pads over to peek cautiously through the bedroom door.

Alfie’s standing at the kitchen table. He waves hello, and gestures to the takeaway bag and three cups of coffee set in front of him. “Breakfast,” he says.

Eames squints, then retreats back into the room. Arthur’s up, fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand.

“Is that food?” he says.

“Apparently,” Eames replies.

...

“Hey, thanks for putting up with me,” Alfie says as he takes boxes out of the bag and arranges them in the center of the table. “I thought—well, you know, first I was going to make something, then I decided not to risk it.”

“Thanks, Alfie,” Arthur says. He’s pouring food into Sanaa’s bowl, summoning her from sleep and into the kitchen with her tail raised high.

“Anything for you, my dear,” Alfie says.

“Good that you didn’t try cooking,” Eames says to Alfie. “It takes a special kind of bad to fuck up beans on toast.”

Alfie laughs. “I’ve gotten a little better since, I swear!”

Arthur makes approving noises as he pops the tops of the boxes. One’s an omelet, one’s eggs Benedict, and one’s eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes.

“I didn’t know what you guys wanted,” Alfie says, “but take your pick.”

As Eames sneaks as much as he can off Arthur’s omelet, Arthur asks, “When are you leaving, Alfie?”

“In a bit. After breakfast.” Alfie smiles around his fork. “Off to the next adventure!”

Arthur puts his chin in his hand. “And what is the next adventure?” he asks.

“Ahhh.” Alfie claps his hands, pleased, and points at Arthur. “Barcelona!”

Last time Arthur and Eames were in Barcelona, Arthur almost got shot in the head.

“That’s great,” Arthur says warmly, slapping Eames’s wrist away from his food without even looking.

Eames eats his eggs Benedict as sullenly as he can. Arthur says, “I’d tell you to let us know whenever you’re in town, but we’re not actually here most of the time.”

“Yes, yes,” Alfie flaps his hand, “world-weary travelers and all. Don’t worry about me.”

“We won’t,” Eames offers.

Alfie laughs as he pushes away from the table. “Eamesie, always the well-wisher. I will miss you.” He moves into the living room and starts tossing things into his suitcase. “And I’ll miss you, mademoiselle,” they hear him say to Sanaa, who’s reclaimed the sofa again.

Eames rolls his eyes. Arthur treads on his foot under the table, then tilts his head innocently when Eames frowns at him.

Eames hates him, he really does.

“And if you wanted the omelet, you could’ve just asked,” Arthur says, as if continuing a conversation. As if he had been talking to Eames for the past ten minutes instead of his new bestie Alfie.

Eames frowns at him. “But you wanted it,” he says.

Arthur looks exasperated. Then suddenly he smiles, and Eames feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

Alfie trundles back into the kitchen, suitcase in tow, to salute the both of them.

“Eames!” He wraps Eames up in his arms. “Good seein’ ya, huh?” He thumps his back. “Keep in touch.”

“Always a pleasure, Alfie,” Eames says, extricating himself.

“And you.” Alfie leans over to kiss Arthur high on the cheekbone. “Call whenever you want, dear Arthur.”

“Charmer,” Arthur says, smiling.

Alfie waves as he pushes his suitcase through the doorway, and then finally, blessedly, the house falls silent.

Eames tries to hold back his relieved sigh for Arthur’s sake. Arthur looks at him and performs an admirable eye-roll, so Eames gives into his urge to press his thumb to the bruise in Arthur’s throat, then he moves up to rub at Arthur’s cheekbone.

“That man drove me round the bend,” he comments.

“Did he?” Arthur pretends to sound surprised. Smart-arse.

Eames pinches Arthur’s cheek. “He'd say all these things about you, when you weren’t there.”

Arthur looks amused. “Mm-hmm.”

“Like, comment on you or your body. Shit like that.”

Arthur considers this. “Do you disagree with him?” he asks.

“Do I—no.” Eames pulls his eyebrows together, surprised into honesty. “But he can’t say that about you,” he adds.

“Why not?” Arthur asks. “You do it all the time.”

“Well, you’re mine,” Eames says, because that’s obvious, “and.” He feels his face prickle under Arthur’s contemplative gaze, and he ducks his head to look at his coffee.

“And I’m not his,” Arthur finishes for him, soft. “You know,” he leans forward in his seat, “Alfie told me you guys hooked up once, in college.”

Eames grimaces as he swallows his coffee. “Yeah, that was a mis—”

“And that he was in love with you.”

Eames coughs.

 _”What?”_ he wheezes.

“He said you never noticed,” and Arthur smiles.

“Sorry—Alfie? Alfie Hinton the Third Alfie? ‘There’s no one at this party I haven’t buggered’ Alfie?”

“Some people have a harder time accepting their sexuality than you, Eames.”

Eames mentally shuffles through the entirety of his friendship with Alfie. “He…” he says faintly. His mind reels. “Why didn’t he talk to me about this?” Eames demands.

Arthur is unimpressed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you guys have a lot of heart-to-hearts about your feelings.”

“So he has them with you instead?” It comes out meaner than he intends, and he winces.

Arthur pats Eames’s arm, consoling. “I think he’s still a little in love with you,” he says, thoughtful. “He’s got money. Why else would he sleep on a couch too small for him in an apartment with a friend from a decade ago and a boyfriend he’s never met before?”

Eames stares.

“He said,” Arthur continues in that same light tone, “he’s happy for you, that you found someone.”

Arthur’s eyes are so, so soft. Eames looks away and fiddles with the edge of his takeaway box. He swallows. “And are you?” he asks Arthur.

In Eames’s peripherals, Arthur tilts his head. “Hmm?”

“Happy." Eames dips his head down. "With...with me.” This last word is mumbled into his cup.

“Hmm.” Arthur takes a content sip of coffee. “Yes, Eames.”

Eames tries not to look too pleased as he sips his own.

A happy Arthur. _Eames_ did that.

“Want to go to the Met today?” he asks Arthur. His boyfriend.

Arthur’s answering smile almost makes Alfie’s visit worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://queuebird.tumblr.com)


End file.
